Mingus
the author of a sensitive and insightful autobiography rich with multiple

meanings and narrative structures/Mingus the author of a self-indicting, titillating pot-boiler

there is no contrasting duality here!

In The Kind of Man I Am, Rustin-Paschal (RP) navigates through these
contradictory and seemingly incompatible glosses on Mingus’ public persona, and
argues for a kind of reconciliation of these oppositions. As multivocality is
characteristic of black literary works, and like how both having a single
authentic artistic voice is only afforded white artists, and the very nature of
black identity is theorized to be effectively, if not essentially, fractured
due to the varied and pernicious effects of racism and the legacy of
slavery—Mingus is revealed to be engaged in performative acts of identity
construction, all related to, on the one hand, the externally imposed
expectations he is meant to fulfill in his role as a black male jazzman, and on
the other, the often competing pressures he felt issuing forth from his own
unique agency, autonomy and lived experiences. Is it any surprise that a
fractured self might result, that Mingus opens his autobiography, Beneath the Underdog (BU), with the
claim, “In other words, I am three”, and when asking himself just a few lines
later, “Which one is real?”, he responds, “They’re all real.”

Let me clear some issues at
the outset. This is a wonderful book, by far the most sophisticated study to
date on Mingus, and although it is theory heavy, it is both clearly written and
a joy to read. The author has also worked through little-known archival
material, so there is much that even the most jaded Mingusphile (like myself!)
will learn about Mingus, and his inner circle. The author is a self-confessed
lover of Mingus, who like so many, was and continues to be entranced by his
music. I myself am a Mingus completest, who taught himself to play the trumpet listening
to recordings of Mingus, who owes test-pressing of his records, and did not
sleep until I was able to find every concert of the 1964 Europe tour on bootleg
vinyl! I share the author’s enthusiasms, and often find myself almost blinded
by Mingus’ overflowing creativity.

Why does this matter? Because
like everyone who holds an artist in high esteem, particularly artists we do
not know personally, we construct an imaginary persona for this artist. Acting
almost like a playwright, we have a fictional idealization of such hallowed
artists who we can conjure up to perform for us imaginatively at our will, and
certainly do so every time we chose to listen to their music. And so Rustin-Paschal
(RP), starting with her “inner” performing Mingus, constructs a Mingus whose
less savory features are shown to be themselves performances of what she calls
“jazzmasculinity”.

This may sound like the
preface to an indictment or criticism of this method, an argument that it is
somehow tainted at the outset. And while I will have some reason to query
aspects of RP’s Mingus, to read my comment this way is to miss the point. We all operate with such an imaginary
performing Mingus (a point implicit in RP’s whole approach). In the end, so I
will argue, the great value of this book is not grounded fundamentally in
whether or not you accept the author’s nuanced reconstruction of Mingus’
life-long performance (and it is for me persuasive, if not perfectly so), but
in the way it draws your attention to interrogating your own role as an
observer of and contributor to the performance, the ways in which it asks you
to consider your own intersectional positionality in passing judgment on
Mingus’ positionality. If we are all like cognitive playwrights constructing
our own imaginary Mingus, who then go on to often both love and hate our
construction—how does our own relationship to the constellation of pressures
that entered into the construction of the actual
Mingus—pressures related to issues of race, gender, class, power, culture,
colonialism, let alone our own relationship to jazz and other musics, enter
into how we imagine Mingus to be? To what degree, and precisely how, are we
indicted in our very own indictments of Mingus? Drawing our attention to this
is, I think, the greatest strength of this book. And this is a strength that only
revealed itself to me slowly. I found myself disagreeing with what I first saw
as the author excusing aspects of Mingus’ “bad behavior”. I then realized that
at least two performances were at play here—that of Mingus himself (which
suggests asking, as the author does, what really is the status of some of the
more prurient episodes found in Mingus’ autobiography), and that of my own
responses to them. So the feminist-positive person and theorist in me wants to condemn
Mingus for his many misogynist acts, the pacifist in me want to condemn his
other acts of violence, and so on. But what informs my own role as judge and
jury of someone I did not know, of someone who is, in effect, a product of my
own imagination, and who is the author of so much art I love, and seemingly of
so many actions I loathe? I have a far richer understanding both of the
mechanics behind my judgments and how and why I might interrogate them, having
read this book. For this I am truly thankful—and disagreements on this and that
should be read against this fact.

The book is divided into an
introduction and five chapters, but it is the introduction and the first
chapter, concerning Mingus’ autobiography, Beneath
the Underdog, that set the stage, and reveal most clearly the author’s
attitude towards Mingus and his legacy. BU
is many things, but a conventional jazz autobiography it is not. Its narrative structure is complex, it lacks
the usual year-by-year exposition of the author’s artistic activities and
development, and it at times (as RP clearly establishes) occupies an unstable
liminal between fact and fiction—indeed it can be profitably read as an
interrogation of this very division. Additionally, its constant destabilization
of a perspective from which a reader can relate to the narrative is forcefully
argued by RP to be Mingus’ intent—the outrageousness of the many tales told
(and there are many such tales) is meant to force a reader to examine their
reactions to them, in particular the degree to which the outrage and pity that
reading Beneath the Underdog often elicits
in readers may be a product of (usually) white male assumptions about the
reality, subjectivity and possibilities open to a black jazzman. The two most
common generic responses to Beneath the
Underdog, “I told you so!”, or “Oh my God!” are each demonstrated to be
deeply flawed, and in particular to be due to a failure of imagination on the
part of readers to allow for a black jazzman to conduct a literary exercise any
more sophisticated and self-aware than a form of pornographic journalism. “I told you so!” is a product of bringing to
the text preconceived ideas of what black masculinity is, and how a jazzman is
often constructed as an extreme paradigm of this set of preconceptions—hypersexualized,
emotional, angry, powerful, artistic, driven. Is there any surprise that this
list sounds like a standard description of Mingus? “Oh my God!” is a product of
taking an naïve view of what it is Mingus is trying to accomplish in writing
BTU, (which RP argues is itself a virtuoso performance) akin to holding in
contempt Laurence Olivier after witnessing him performing as Othello.

RP’s cumulative argument
for this is subtle, and unfolds throughout chapter one and in subsequent
chapters. Accordingly, it instilled in me moments where I was uncertain
precisely what claim is being made. Let me note those moments, and then go on
to say why I think they really do not matter, for they themselves miss what is
I think is the even deeper moral to draw from this book.

The heart of RP’s claim is
that Mingus’ autobiography is a conscious performative act, and simultaneously
an honest self-assessment of his often contradictory relationships to race,
gender, power and the jazz industry—all to a large part determined by, on the
one hand, the multiple forms of oppression he faced, and on the other by his
unwavering commitment to his art, and his steadfast belief that the production
of honest music, music truly capable of transmitting his subjectivity and
speaking truth to assorted powers, may often require actions best seen as
difficult, unwarranted, or worse. At another level of analysis, RP argues that
Mingus is well aware that the roles he felt he was almost predetermined to play
in life were to a large degree a product of white male typecasting of him and
other jazz men, and so his narrative in BU simultaneously unstablizes this
typecasting and reinforces it (particularly for those unable to read the
critique inherent in the text).

In the end, the careful
reader is to conclude that the more extreme episodes found in BU, acts of
sexual excess, misogyny, violence and other forms of dangerous and harmful
behavior, are not so much reportage, but farce. Now here is where I find myself
a bit unsure of how to take this message, for the performance that BU is, is
also mimicked, according to RP, by his actual life—the three Mingus’ each
drawing from different scripts, so to speak, and each, in effect a product of
Mingus’ commitment to his art, and society’s commitment, so to speak, to allowing
black male artists very few ways of developing and expressing their
subjectivity. What now happens to moral judgments we might make, of Mingus, or
others? I am uncertain what RP takes to be fact vs. fiction from amongst the assorted tales of Mingus’ excesses. We
know from multiple sources, for example, of his violent outbursts against other
musicians, and RP herself does not deny his (however brief) pimping. I am not
certain how viewing these as performances should change the attitude I take
towards them. If all that one does is
a performance, this seems to, from a moral/ethical perspective, reduce to the
same claim as if nothing is. And if such performances were strongly determined
by simply being a jazzman, what should we make of the fact that not all jazzmen
got in knife fights with their peers, or slugged them, or (seemingly) glorified
pimping, or freely used homophobic language? Are we to take it that these
actual acts were, as committed, also intended to be meta-commentaries, so to
speak, on the jazzman and the external forces that largely determine their
subjectivity? I am not sure how such an argument would be fully unpacked.

And so we find a number of
claims whose (inter)relationship is at times hard to glean. “Mingus’
representation of masculinity shows an unrelenting struggle between self-hate
and anger, between passivity and aggression, between self-love and disgust”
[52]. Taken on its own such a claim suggests opposing forces at play, all of
which are (partially) constitutive of Mingus’ own subjectivity, his (true?)
self. Yet we are also told that the crucial mistake critics of BU made was to
“take Mingus’ narrative as a literal performance instead of as a farce,” [51] due
to such critics “investment in conventional narratives of subjectivity, music
and race,” [48] and their “inability to conceptualize a musician questioning
his blackness as an authoritative interrogation of jazz culture” [49]. These
claims suggest not so much that Mingus’ assorted ways of “acting” masculinity
are a product of complex and competing “internal” forces, but are conscious
performative gambits played out in response to, and in commentary on, the ways
white culture at large constructs and receives his subjectivity. But what now
to make of the precise manner in which Mingus’ performed jazzmasculinity, as
opposed to that of other jazzmen? Perhaps this is not a question the author
wants to address, but at times her love of Mingus suggests she may not be so
much explaining Mingus’ lived performance, but explaining it away. So we are
told that, “the pimp’s alienation is the only way to be successful in a culture
that devalues traits associated with the expression of love.” [37]. This reads
not such much as an explanation of why Mingus’ self-narrative (much to the
chagrin and confusion of many critics, as the author forcefully and convincing
demonstrates) draws upon and glorifies the pimp, but as a fact of the matter.
And if this is so, why did not all jazzmen glorify the pimp? (It may be worth
noting that the subtle discussion of the pimp and his relationship to
constructions of black male subjectivity found here avoids entirely any
discussion of a pimp’s role in the stultifying and violent construction of
female identity.) We are also told that, “After Mingus marries, the depth of
his feeling for his wife Barbara provides an insufficient counter to his
ambitious musical desires and sexual appetites” [35]. Indeed Mingus draws this
conclusion in BU, and the author unpacks the conflicting pulls here in a
convincing and sophisticated way, but again this statement reads a bit like a
“get out of jail free” card for Mingus’ behavior—others have had strong libidos
and ambitious music desires that manifested in distinct behaviors.

I make the above
observations not as criticism, but for twofold reasons: first, I suspect
readers may draw similar conclusions, and second, RP is not so much engaged in
judging Mingus as a man as much as she is interested in revealing how Mingus
himself was engaged in repeated performances critiquing how we judge him and
the jazzmasculinity of others. To draw conclusions about the moral stance
Mingus may have taken at various times in his life is far less central to the
author’s project then is interrogating the motivations and positionality of the
judge/critic. And here she succeeds wonderfully.
Let me use myself as an example: I have had a now 35-year-long love of Mingus’
music, I own all of it, and know the existing literature on Mingus inside and
out. I am also a white cis-male jazz scholar who, in virtue of this fact, and
amplified by my assorted academic positions and qualifications, is taken to
speak with authority on jazz matters. This books induced in me a long series of
introspections concerning the assumptions I have made about Mingus’
subjectivity, the legitimacy from which I pass judgments, be they moral or
aesthetic, on Mingus and others, the ways I foreground concerns, say, about
gender over race in some situations, and the reverse in others, and how my
theoretical commitments to intersectionality may fail to inform my “gut” reactions
to performances of jazzmasculinity. I found myself in the very position Mingus
was in and describes in the opening of BU—there is me the lover of Mingus’
music, there is me the cautious scholar and critic of jazz practices and the
way they both constitute and reflect greater social practices, and there is me,
the hateful judge of Mingus’ moral worth. Mingus’ honesty (a theme the author
foregrounds throughout the book) in describing his seemingly fractured self, in
admitting to his conflicting and less than admirable tendencies, Mingus’
life-long practice of encoding this honesty sonically, is an invitation for us
to do the same, to practice such acts of introspection, to ask ourselves, “What
sort of (person) Am I?”

Subsequent chapters trace
these themes through different periods of Mingus’ life, and expand the concept
of jazzmasculinity beyond Mingus, and into his sphere of influence. Chapter two
is a detailed study of Mingus’ upbringing in L.A., and the ways in which race
politics (both personal and institutional) and the development and precise
trajectory of Mingus’ sexuality and musical genus interacted so as to inform
many of the “biographical” decisions he made that those familiar with the
outlines of Mingus’ career may well be familiar with, but have gone generally
under-theorized. There are particularly revealing discussions of his tenure in
the Red Norvo Trio, and the infamous Town Hall Concert.

The third chapter addresses
the role of women’s labor—the ways women can perform jazzmasculinity—in the
jazz industry. In particular it considers the crucial role Mingus’ second wife,
Celia, played in the creation, growth and management of Debut Records, founded
by Mingus and Max Roach. This chapter adds to the growing literature on women
in jazz, and extends those discussions, which have focused to date almost
exclusively on women musicians and related performers. As we know from the
pioneering work of scholars such as Sherrie Tucker and Lisa Barg women in jazz
were also forced to inhabit multiple, and perhaps contradictory selves—they
were expected to play the traditional role of women, from sewing band costumes
and looking after ill band-mates (and other forms of emotional labor), yet to
equally perform jazzmasculinity in order to receive respect from band mates,
and acceptance from predominately male audiences (who, of course, were also not
adverse to the exposure of skin, and a “come hither” smile). The author expands
this discussion of female performances of jazz masculinity in a discussion of
Hazel Scott, who recorded for Debut, and was both lauded and vilified for her jazz
masculinity. Together these two chapters push forward the important work on
women in jazz that the last 20 odd years has produced, and deepen our
understanding of, on the one hand, the often invisible roles such women played
(and continue to play), and on the other the complex social and political entanglements
such work operated within.

Concerning Hazel Scott, who
recorded for Debut, RP asks the interesting question, “how is jazzmasculinity
articulated as a moment of becoming or recognition for women?” [129]. By
arguing that women can, and often must, perform jazzmasculinity to, among other
things, respond to their marginalization within the masculine jazz world, RP
thickens existing accounts of women in jazz. What is particularly interesting
is RP’s discussion of how the infamous “Hazel Scott Incident” reveals how Scott’s
jazzmasculinity relates to issues of the nature of American democracy, and the
uneasy relationship blacks had (and continue to have) to this theoretically
firm yet actually amorphous institution. In this sense, this chapter can be
seen as adding to the territory opened up by Ingrid Monson in her Freedom Sounds.

The book ends with a
discussion of how Mingus performed his jazzmasculinity in the light of his
declining physical health near the end of his life, unable to perform, and
limited to a wheel chair.RP offers a
theoretically richer account of Mingus’ relationship with Joni Mitchell than
that usually on offer, particularly since she focuses on Mingus’ subjectivity
in this relationship, rather than Mitchell’s, as is normally the case.

At the very end of the book
we read the following:

Mingus’
declaration of a fractured self in Beneath
the Underdog was a demand that he be seen as a multilayered personality
with conflicting ambitions and desires. To express his love of the music and
the people within it, he expressed his disappointment, his rage, and his humor.
Mingus challenged himself, as he challenged others, to tell the truth even if
it damaged his own relationships, because he valued the idea that only through
honest expression could he accurately and creatively make music that was saying
something. His insistence on truth-telling regularly got him into
trouble—whether it was having to pay for physically assaulting a valued
collaborator, losing professional opportunities, or failing at relationships. Nevertheless,
we can admire his tenacity and clarity of vision. [170-171]

This passage neatly sums up
the overarching theme of the book, and upon first reading it, made me slightly
queasy. Does truth telling and honesty necessarily demand assaulting your
friends, and creating toxic sexual relationships? The rigor of RP’s
argumentation, the clarity of her writing, her deep knowledge of her subject,
and her love of Mingus has tempered my initial reluctance to buy into this
account. And while I still have residual doubts, The Kind of Man I Am has succeeded in a related, and more important
way, for now I see how to more honestly interrogate my own relationship to
Mingus’ subjectivity and the judgements upon it that I make. For a book to
accomplish this, all I can exclaim is “Oh Yeah!”